


The God's Companion

by Diana Williams (dkwilliams), dkwilliams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3096137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/pseuds/Diana%20Williams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/pseuds/dkwilliams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how the God of Perception came to take a mortal for his companion, and how that Mortal came to earn his place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The God's Companion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cleflink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleflink/gifts).



> I am indebted to Moftiss for their works which were liberally appropriated for this work, to ACD for the in-jokes which were shamelessly used, and to Ariane DeVere for her [ transcriptions ](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html%E2%80%9D) which are pure gold. Also to my beta, Katie, who is to be valued above pearls.
> 
> Warnings: Inappropriate humor. Irreverent and non-accurate use of Celtic deities. Anachonisms.

This is the story of how the God of Perception came to take a mortal for his companion, and how that Mortal came to earn his place.

In those days, the Gods were young and often walked among mankind. Some even preferred to dwell near their earthly temples so that they might interact more closely with man. Chief among these was the God of Perception, whose keen eye could discern at a glance whether one was a tailor by one's thumb or an ox-cart driver by one's trews. He chose to live away from the rest of the Gods who dwelt at Math's Court in Caer Dathyl on the Isle of Anglesey, declaring the lot of them "boring", particularly his elder brother. (Who was sometimes called Dylan but more often in these times known as Midir or Mycroft. He was the right-hand of Math and could see into the hearts of Gods and men, only preferring to view them from afar.)

The God of Perception preferred to walk among both men and Gods, living in Ardudwy close to where the men of the land had made their temple to him. He has sometimes been confused with Lleu Llaw Gyffes, or with Lugh of the Irish, and also with Nechtan, he who guarded the Holy Well of Knowledge and the Salmon of Wisdom, but he was more properly known as Sherlock, the Younger of the Gods of Holmes. Sherlock spent his days upon Earth acquiring knowledge and solving puzzles set to him by men and Gods. It is said that whenever the Gods were at a loss in their own dealings, which was always, they consulted Sherlock for the answers.

On this day, Sherlock had been laboring long over a mystery set to him by Maponos of Baskerville, regarding a mysterious hound who bayed in the night outside his abode. Sherlock had determined that it was the earth-bound spirit of an ancestor of Maponos, cursed to tread the world in the form of a giant hound. (Maponis was so pleased by this information when he received it that he befriended the beastly form of his great-grandfather, calling him Culhwch, and traveled the world in its company as they hunted wild boar, but that is another story.) Sherlock committed the details of the case to paper and sent this off with the pwycca called Wiggins, one of the irregular band of fae who performed such services for the God. He stretched his back, aching after hours bent over his scrying lens, and realized quite abruptly that he was very hungry.

"Mrs Hudson!" he shouted as he strode out of his workroom. Brighid of Hudson, the Senior Goddess of the Hearth who also dwelt near the temple, could often be prevailed upon to whip up a snack, even if she muttered that she was a Goddess, not his housekeeper. "Mrs Hudson!"

There was only an echo in reply to his shout and Sherlock frowned. Had Mrs Hudson said something about going to visit her sister, Aine, the Goddess of the Harvest? Inconvenient, if she had. He supposed that he could prevail upon one of the fey who owed him a favour but it seemed like a lot of trouble and fairie food was notoriously insubstantial. Besides, he was hungry now.

He decided to wander down the hill to the temple, to see what sacrifices had been left on his altar. At this time of year, there tended to be fruits and breads, as well as drink. It would be enough to settle his empty stomach, and in any case he preferred light meals that didn't distract his mind from his body.

There was a lamp lit in the temple which boded well and he quickened his pace. He hoped there were some of those little oat cakes and mead, although an infusion of fragrant leaves in hot water would be equally welcome. Sherlock entered the inner chamber, and as his sharp eyes caught sight of a naked body tied to the altar, he swore out loud.

"Of all the damned - Molly!" he shouted.

Molly, the priestess of the temple, hurried into the chamber. "Lord Sherlock! What - what may I do to serve you?"

"You can get rid of that!" he snapped, gesturing toward the altar.

"The sacrifice?" she asked, a little breathless in the face of his ire.

"I have told you repeatedly that I have no use for virgin sacrifices!" he snapped. "Celibate god, remember? And these sacrifices - so bloody difficult to maintain." He scowled. "The last one was irritating in the extreme - underfoot all the time, rearranging my things, wearing my tunics, wanting me to kiss her. I finally had to banish her to a little cottage in the East, and I still get messages from her, complaining about the bees."

"You - you said that she 'wasn't your area' so we thought..." Molly gestured helplessly toward the male figure bound to the altar.

Sherlock scowled. "This is really quite ridiculous. I neither need nor want a human offering!"

"You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that," replied the man currently bound to the altar.

Sherlock glanced over at the altar, then turned back for a better look. The man was not in the fresh blush of youth nor an unblemished virgin. While his naked body was trim and compact, there were silver hairs among the gold. There were also a few lines on his face, crinkles around his eyes which spoke of either a great deal of time spent in the sun or of a good nature. Or possibly both. The tan of his body confirmed time spent outdoors, and the firm musculature indicated that he had been a soldier, at least until receiving the injury to his shoulder.

"That's - amazing!"

Sherlock realized two things in that moment: that he had been speaking aloud and that the sacrifice was staring at him admiringly. This was a new experience. No one, not even Holmes the Elder, had ever called him amazing. He belatedly realized he'd said that out loud as well.

"Why? What do they usually say?" the bound man asked.

"'Piss off'," Sherlock replied, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

The man laughed and Sherlock found himself chuckling as well.

"Since you don't want to ravish or devour me, do you suppose you could untie me?" the man asked.

Molly made a little bleat of negation but Sherlock ignored her, as he usually did. He untied the ropes around the man's wrists first, then his ankles.

The man sat up, rubbing his abraded wrists. "Thank you, my god," he said. "I'd offer to shake your hand, only I don't suppose it's appropriate."

He shivered and Sherlock abruptly realized that the night air had turned chill with the approach of autumn. It must have been intolerable on naked flesh. "Lestrade!" he shouted, striding toward the vestibule. "Les - there you are!"

"You bellowed?" Lestrade asked. The chief priest of the temple entered the inner chamber and raised an eyebrow at the sight of the naked man sitting on the altar.

"I require clothing for - " Sherlock abruptly realized that he didn't know the sacrifice's name.

"John, son of Watt," the man replied, flushing a little at the attention he was receiving. The flush was a remarkably good look for the fair man, Sherlock decided, making his blue eyes more vivid. He hastily turned his thoughts away from that avenue.

"John," Sherlock said, turning back to Lestrade. "Tunic and trews, and shoes if they can be found."

"Wardrobe is not my division," Lestrade replied mildly. "But I'll see what I can come up with."

He disappeared and Sherlock turned back to his sacrifice. Molly was still hovering nearby and he scowled at her.

"If you want to be useful, fetch a cup of those boiled leaves. John will freeze to death."

"Don't go to any trouble for me," John said hastily to Molly.

"Oh, it's no trouble, is it, Molly?" Sherlock asked, giving her a flash of his insincere smile. Molly turned bright red and hurried off.

Sherlock turned back to John and was about to share another of his observations - for the sole purpose of confirming that John would still find his deductions brilliant rather than annoying - when there was another interruption. The Mayhem Twins strolled into the inner chamber of the temple, and really, was the place becoming a bloody tourist stop? For a lark, no doubt, they had decided to exchange sexes, as both were notorious shape-shifters. Oenghus mac Adler, the God of Love and Kisses, was in the semblance of the Lady Irene, wearing her battle dress. Morrigu, the Goddess of War, was now employing the visage of Lord Moriarty (no doubt because she was currently sporting with a warrior and hunter, Nuada of Moran, who preferred male partners). He was wearing a crown he had stolen from one of the mortal kingdoms. Sherlock scowled at the sight of them.

"You don't look pleased to see us, Sherlock, dear," Moriarty said, his smirk widening as he caught sight of John. "Oh, another mortal sacrifice! How ordinary!"

"Are you going to keep him?" Irene asked, looking John over lasciviously. "He is older than the last, and no virgin."

"Neither was the last, once you'd finished with her," Sherlock said drily. "Go away, Irene. You're making John uncomfortable. He doesn't know where to look."

Irene smirked. "Oh, I think he knows exactly where to look. You, however...."

"Dull," Sherlock replied, turning away from her. "You tried that before now, and it didn't go well for you."

Irene huffed, no doubt recalling the retaliation the elder Holmes had taken in Math's name, and summoned a robe which she wrapped around herself.

John cleared his throat. "I can hear you, you know."

"What do you intend to do with it?" Moriarty asked, eyeing John the way that a lion might view its next prey. "If you have no use for him, I can find a place for him in my household."

Sherlock snorted. "As what - bait?"

Lestrade reappeared carrying a tunic and trousers. "These belonged to your sacrifice, although I can't find his shoes. One of the villagers must have claimed them."

Sherlock grabbed the clothes from him and threw them to John. "Dress. Quickly."

John quickly pulled on the clothing, then looked questioningly at Sherlock for his next instruction. Sherlock scowled, recalling the downside of accepting a sacrifice was that he would be required to provide for its needs. Best to nip that idea in the bud.

"Well, as I said, I have no need of sacrificial slaves, virgin or not, male or female. It interferes with the Work. So you can just....toddle off."

John looked down at his feet, his face set in a way that indicated embarrassment and his determination not to show it. "Well, actually, that's what started this. I haven't a place to stay, not any more. I met Stamford at the Sleeping Dragon tavern and he said they needed a sacrifice, and here I am."

 _Interesting_ , Sherlock thought. John had volunteered for a role that could have been dangerous, possibly fatal, should Sherlock's tastes run to blood - like the Twins now avidly watching John. Out loud he said, with a sigh, "Stamford is a demi-god, the son of Airmid, Goddess of Healing. He specializes in match-making, both for romance and for companionship. It is clear that he set you up, particularly since no sacrifice is needed."

"Why would he do that?"

"I was talking with Stamford just this morning and mentioned that I needed an assistant, preferably with rudimentary medical knowledge, and here you are. You were a healer and a soldier, both of which could be useful in my Work."

"Your assistant?"

"Unless you'd prefer to be a sacrifice. I'm not interested but I'm certain there are others less fastidious."

"No, thank you," John said hastily. "It's just - you know nothing about me but you're willing to take me on as your assistant?"

Sherlock looked John over once more, appraising him. "I know that you were a soldier in the employ of Pryderi before the battle in which he was killed and you were injured. You married one of the captives, willingly on her part as she had proposed the match. You came here with her for she had relatives living in the area, and a year ago she died in childbirth, along with the child. You have been staying with her family during your period of mourning, performing household chores, but you no longer feel comfortable there. Possibly because you assume - quite incorrectly - that they blame you for your wife's death, but more likely because you sense that her sister wishes to take your wife's place. She does. You have a brother but are estranged from him, possibly because he drinks but more likely because he has caused his wife to place his belongings on their doorstep."

Sherlock paused, noting that John had gone quite still, and wondered if that had been too much. He never seemed to know when to stop. He wasn't sure why that seemed to matter with John.

After a moment's silence, John nodded briskly and said, "I'll be your assistant."

A wave of relief swept over Sherlock. "Good. Come with me."

As they left the temple, Sherlock belatedly realized that he had yet to eat and that his stomach was still complaining. "Hungry?" he asked John.

"Starving," John replied.

"I know a tavern where the landlord owes me a favour. They serve an excellent stew and shepherd's pie."

John indicated his interest and Sherlock led the way, noticing with a frown that John was limping due to the cold on his bare feet. He would have to do something about that as he couldn't afford to have his assistant incapacitated. They were quickly seated at the best table in the tavern, near the fire, and after ordering food and drink, Sherlock lapsed into silence as he considered which cobbler's elf could best be approached for boots.

"That was brilliant."

Lost in his thoughts, Sherlock didn't realize that John had spoken for a moment.

"What you said in the temple before we left? That was amazing."

"Do you think so?" Sherlock asked, stunned that John didn't seem in any way offended.

"How did you know? Stamford couldn't have told you any of that."

"I didn't know, I observed. It's what I do." Sherlock took a sip of his mead. "Your clothing is not in the local style but rather that favoured by the warriors of Dyfed. You would not have come to Ardudwy unless you were a captive or married a native, and the captives from Dyfed are at the Royal Court on Anglesey, so you married someone with family in this area. Your tunic has been carefully mended several times, indicating that you had a woman to take care of you, but it is old indicating that neither you nor your wife had money to purchase new cloth, nor land to raise sheep for the wool to weave for it. They had not been mended for nearly a year, as can be seen by the frayed edges of a tear on your trewes, indicating your loss at that time. However it has been recently mended by a less skillful hand, so another woman has taken an interest in you. You are looking for new accommodations, so you do not intend to take her up on her offer."

John nodded, his mouth being filled with stew at the moment. Sherlock regretted that, as he was quickly growing addicted to John's praise.

"And then there's your brother. You wear a pendant around your neck, a family token but not originally yours. Given to you by an older sibling who inherited it, probably when you went off to war. He didn't go with you so he was married as King Pryderi recruited single men for this war. You're not returning to live with him because he has no place to give you, so his wife has put him out. Why would she do that when there are few potential replacements after the wars? Unfaithfulness is a possibility, but violence is more likely, violence due to heavy drinking for she never would have married him if it had been his nature. Another indication for drinking is that the cord bearing the pendant has been replaced - it is newer than the token - but it has been broken and repaired several times. You would never treat such an heirloom so carelessly but you have not replaced the cord yourself, so you have kept it as a cautionary reminder not to repeat his mistakes."

"That is amazing."

Sherlock drank in the praise but he acted nonchalant. "You really think so?"

"Of _course_ it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

John seemed quite pleased with Sherlock, which was a novel sensation. Sherlock took a moment to bask in it. Out of curiosity, Sherlock asked, "Did I get anything wrong?"

John paused for a moment, obviously in thought. "I was a soldier and I was injured. Mary took care of me while I was recovering as I had no family, and it was she who suggested marriage, although the child was not mine. We came here, to stay with her widowed mother and sister. Mary died a year ago, and Sarah has made courting noises. You're also right about Harry, about the drinking, and the latest word I had was that Clara had repudiated Harry." He paused for a moment. "Harry is short for Harriet. She and Clara are priestesses of Arianrhod."

Sherlock scowled. "It's always something."

He stood abruptly, leaving a coin in thanks for the meal on the table. John hastily rose to follow him, silent as they made their way back toward the temple area.

"No, I am not angry with you," Sherlock said in response to the unasked question he could feel hanging in the air between them. "I simply dislike making a mistake. Fortunately, I do it infrequently."

John chuckled softly. "Fortunate also that Gods are not required to be humble."

Sherlock couldn't help grinning at the man's cheek, which was very refreshing after the obsequiousness of his devotees and the derision of his fellow Gods. He said nothing, however, as he led the way up the hill above the temple to his home. He was delighted to see a light in the lower level of the house that indicated that Mrs Hudson had returned home. He wasted no time in making John known to her, introducing him as his assistant, although the knowing gleam in her eye indicated that she knew the precise details of John's employment. He groaned internally; that meant that Mycroft would know everything, which was never a good thing.

For his part, John seemed faintly bewildered to suddenly be on easy terms with a Goddess, accepting the cup of brewed leaves that she offered "just this once, dear, because I'm a Goddess, not your housekeeper" and the offer of a single bedchamber "should he need it". Sherlock quickly swept John upstairs to his own rooms, where John settled into one of the fur-covered chairs in the main room with his warm drink while Sherlock picked up his crwth and bow and began plucking out a tune idly, thinking about his recent case and speculating about the three recent deaths in the area.

"You mentioned 'the Work'," John said, interrupting his thoughts. "What is that precisely?" He looked slightly embarrassed. "Is that what you are the God of? I'm afraid that I'm not very familiar with the local Pantheon."

Sherlock lowered the crwth, looking over at John. "I solve mysteries and crimes that the other Gods can't solve, as well as occasional crimes among mortals that are brought to my attention, particularly ones that can cause major upheaval."

John looked thoughtful at that. "Then you are looking into the suicides?"

"They are murders, not suicides," Sherlock replied. "Although I don't yet know why or how."

He would, though, before the next day had ended. Because Lestrade came to him with news that one of the temple priestesses was the latest suicide, and Sherlock took up the case, with John at his side as he chased down clues. As Sherlock had predicted, they had been a sort of murder, in that a travelling bard turned blackmailer had convinced the victims to take poison rather than have their secrets revealed. And by the end of the next day, John had put an arrow through the man's heart before he could convince Sherlock to take poison as well. (Although Sherlock was grateful, he pointed out that as a God he would have been immune to the poison. John retorted that it was better to be safe than sorry. And Mrs Hudson had protested that their resultant giggling over the deaths of five people wasn't decent, even if one had been a murderer.)

What _was_ certain was that John, son of Watt, had become Sherlock's assistant and friend from that day forward, assisting him in the Work and making faithful records of their adventures for future bards to sing. John stood at his side during the overt machinations of the Twins and the murderous actions of Moriarty. (Who told Sherlock that he owed Moriarty a fall as he drank a cup of those boiled leaves. Unfortunately for Moriarty, John had doctored the tea with the blackmailer's poison, which had proven to be surprisingly effective against a God. John had been annoying smug about that for weeks.)

John had stood firm against Mycroft's more subtle machinations and outright attempts at bribery. Sherlock had been pleased that someone had taken his side for a change and ignored Mycroft's dire predictions. ("Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. And I am not lonely.")

John had also stood firm against the jealous and the brainless who muttered against the Perceptive God behind his back. Those who dared to whisper about such things also noted that John ceased aging from that day onward, although they knew not why. Mrs Hudson could perhaps have enlightened them, for the single bed upstairs was never used, while she had to relocate her own bedchamber to the other side of the house in order to get any sleep. However, no one ever asked her.

And no one ever questioned why, on the anniversary of John's sacrificial rite, the God of Perception had standing orders that the temple be left empty from dusk till dawn. Although if any had ventured near enough, they would have learned that the temple was not completely empty, that it echoed with deep laughter and higher giggles, interspersed with groans and cries of praise. But no one dared to oppose the will of the God, so no one ever knew the full truth of the story.

There came a day when the lamps in the temple ceased being lit when First Fruits were no longer placed on the Perceptive God's altar. The priests of the Old Ways disappeared into the mists of time - those who were not murdered by the Romans in their conquest of Britain. Those who glanced up the hill toward the house that stood in the grove of two hundred and twenty one beech trees saw only darkness, and the temple itself fell into decay.

And what of the God and his faithful companion? It was said that they, too, vanished into the mist, never to be seen again, and their names and deeds became merely myths. But those who have slept alone on the slopes of Cadair Idris and thus are madder than most might note that every hundred years, two travellers happen upon the ruins of the temple. They seem to have little difficulty finding it, even when overgrown by weeds, but their faces are not those of locals. They have lingered for a while, the tall, dark-haired man gazing up at the fading inscriptions on the wall while the blonder man runs his fingers over the altar with apparent reverence. Neither pays heed to other visitors to the shrine, plentiful now since the Victorian renewal of interest in things occult. They simply look their fill, exchange a speaking glance, then take hands and climb the hill above the temple until they disappear into the mist that suddenly falls to blanket the land.

Listeners to my tale may make of that what they will.

 


End file.
